


Sheer Perfection

by aislingeach_21



Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Lingerie, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, The Author Regrets Everything, Voyeurism, avoiding spoilers for future chapters, but not that slow, rating reflects later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2019-06-15 01:33:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15402048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aislingeach_21/pseuds/aislingeach_21
Summary: Armie isn’t nosey. He’d been raised better. But when your young, attractive, twenty-something neighbour, hangs out his delicates and they happen to be of the lacy and frilly sort…well. Suffice it to say, Armie’s interest had been piqued.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed and unplanned - apologies in advance.
> 
> I've been in a rut with a couple WIPs and something sparked my muse to write this trainwreck. I figure it may prove to be a great exercise in letting inspiration take hold and stopping myself from overthinking and second guessing (it's mostly not working).
> 
> Posting this before I tear it to pieces. If I don't delete this out of embarrassment we can all laugh on this journey together.
> 
> Fair warning, the first chapter is full of exposition and it hurt my head to change that about it so, my bad.

Armie isn’t nosey. He’d been raised better. But when your young, attractive, twenty-something neighbour, hangs out his delicates and they happen to be of the lacy and frilly sort…well. Suffice it to say, Armie’s interest had been piqued.

It’s not that the underwear, or the public display of such items, was offensive by any means. But Armie couldn’t think of any reason his curly haired neighbour would need such a collection of undergarments when, as far as Armie’s concerned, he lives alone and is single. And very male.

Sure, people like different things, like to express themselves through various mediums – Armie wasn’t one to judge. He just couldn’t get his head around it. His perfectly normal, sweet, boyish neighbour – Timmy, as he’d introduced himself when Armie had moved in – was for all intents and purposes completely average.

If average was an excitable, unpredictable, ball of energy that Armie struggles to keep a tab of. With his chocolate locks and lush pink lips, coltish legs and slight frame…when Armie stops to think about it, maybe the girly scraps of fabric are more appropriate than he initially thought.

It’s been going on the entire time he’s been living here. A whole year of seeing Tim’s pretty panties and flimsy bralettes on the line, floating on the wind. And never once in all their interactions has he ever seen actual proof of Tim wearing these items. Not even a hint of satiny goodness peeking out from the waistband of his low-slung jeans. Armie knows this for certain. He’s made a point of being very thorough with his appraisal of Timmy’s outfits whenever their paths cross, and he’s only been caught once. Maybe twice. Definitely no more than three times.

It’s never acknowledged because any time they bump into each other it’s always in passing, one of them coming or going, just enough time to say hi, exchange a few pleasantries. Armie doesn’t even know what Timmy does for a living. He’s narrowed it down to events and/or costuming, or a combination of the two, thanks to the quarterly street parties he’s attended. Street parties which Timmy is strangely absent from. Either that or he dashes in late or leaves early, sometimes both.

Armie doesn’t like to think that Timmy is avoiding him and the rest of the neighbourhood, he just seems…busy. And appears to lack a regular schedule. Armie can’t pin him down. Some weeks he’s hardly home, others he makes like a hermit crab and does everything from home. 

He figures Tim must be self-employed. How else could someone barely out of adolescence be able to work such strange hours and afford a place in the suburbs? Arguably, they hardly live in paradise, but the houses are standalone, each have a decent sized yard, and most have a pool or some sort of outdoor entertaining area. Armie’s not complaining, and he doubts Tim is either.

Tonight marks the end of an exhausting week for Armie. He’s been putting in long hours at the ad agency where he’s hoping to soon make partner. The latest campaign they’ve been working on for a very high profile cereal brand has been stressful to say the least. He can only hope that this might be the one that gives him the edge over his fellow co-workers and earns him the coveted corner office. Or at least an office with windows. 

He goes to whip up a quick meal for himself and curses. He’s out of gas. Not only is he out of gas, he knows his back up tank attached to his barbecue is out too – he’d had the boys around last weekend and they’d enjoyed a 16-hour meat buffet, taking it in turns to man the cooking station.

Fuck.

He glances at his watch. Too late now to get a refill. He’s considering nipping back into town to get take out, or to maybe try his luck with a late-night delivery when he sees a light flicker out of the corner of his eye.

Armie stands at his window, between undrawn curtains, looks out towards the house of intrigue. It would appear that Timmy’s awake. He wonders if it’d be rude to go over so late asking for assistance. But then again, Tim did say that if Armie ever found himself in a sticky spot and in need of his help just to pop over or give him a call.

He realises he could just eat whatever he’s got in the pantry, although he’s been eating rubbish all week and had been looking forward to a home cooked meal, even if he has to cook it for himself.

Mind made up he grabs his phone and keys, and walks the short distance over to Timmy’s house. As he makes his way up the front path he can hear the faint sound of music and what he assumes is Timmy rapping along to it. Interesting.

He presses the doorbell, waits a beat before knocking on the door as well – he has his doubts as to whether the doorbell can be heard over the din inside.

A few moments later and the door swings open. What’s revealed is an attack on nearly all his senses. He’s blasted with the sound of foreign hip hop beats, hazy, warm light, and the scent of incense wafting through the doorway. And then there’s Timmy.

Green eyes bright and gleeful, he’s a little flushed and emanating a dewy glow, tongue darting out to wet the lips of his panting mouth. A plastic, white headband doing its best to hold his unruly mane off and away from his face.

It’s a lot to take in, but it’s something else that renders Armie speechless. Causes him to freeze, saliva to pool in his mouth, heart rate to sky rocket, and arousal to sizzle within.

Timmy’s half-dressed, in nothing but a pair of tiny denim shorts. On a girl he’d call them Daisy Dukes, but on Timmy…he supposes they’re still Daisy Dukes. The denim sits low and jauntily on his narrow waistline, a sliver of almost translucent flesh exposed to wandering eyes. Armie’s never seen Timmy’s legs bare before, and bare they are – hairless, porcelain perfection. As he brings his gaze upwards his eyes are instantly drawn to the black lace hitched up above the short’s waistband, the elastic pressing deliciously into the gentle swell of Timmy’s hip.

In the few seconds it takes for Armie to process what stands before him, there’s only one outcome he knows for certain. 

He’s fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie gets a peek at a few of Timmy's things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely feedback and comments! I wrote more you guys! And I haven't deleted it yet - yay! All the exclamation marks!

“Armie?”

Timmy’s concerned voice startles him out of his reverie. He doesn’t appear to be too put out by someone calling in at such a late hour, his eyes wide and alert, breathing a little accelerated. If anything, Armie suspects he’s caught him in the middle of something, if his unsettled energy is anything to go by.

“Oh, uh…hi?”

“What’s up, you ok?” Timmy’s nimble fingers playing with his lower lip, seemingly at ease with his own state of undress.

Armie can’t help but stare at his plump lips, catches himself before it becomes weird, and clears his throat, shaking his head to refocus. “Uh, yea. I mean, no. I was wondering if you have a spare gas tank? I’m all out.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, a nervous habit he employs when facing the unknown.

His request earns him a curious look but the smaller man doesn’t do anything to satiate his need for an answer. “Sure, you can have the one hooked up to my barbecue, should be alright.”

“Oh thanks, that’d be great.” Armie does his best to maintain eye contact with his young neighbour. Studiously avoiding his barely there jorts, the smooth silkiness of his skin, his long slender limbs, the black lace… It’s only when Timmy calls out to him from inside the house that he realises his mind has wandered and he’s alone on the doorstep.

He walks in, shuts the door behind him and attempts to discern which direction Timmy has gone. He takes the opportunity to have a quick look around, he’s never been inside Timmy’s house. Structurally it appears to be much the same as his, decoratively they’re miles apart. Armie’s is all clean lines with homely touches, Timmy’s is…eclectic and a little dotty. 

A smile stretches across his face as he is confronted with a huge canvas leaning against the wall of the front entrance – it’s completely white except for a couple of neat, red lines running down the right side of it. Behind it, hanging tacked to the wall, a tapestry of sorts, a kaleidoscope of colours, arranged in a pattern he can’t understand. The juxtaposition of these two items is doing strange things to his head, but they somehow work together.

He walks further into the house, the smell of incense stronger with each step, heavy bass pulsing from somewhere else in the residence. Armie tiptoes through a dimly lit living room where he can just make out a clear path to take him deeper into unchartered territory. He passes what he thinks is a piano, a record player, and a statue of a Greek goddess and a soldier knelt at her feet, does his best to walk his large frame carefully around them. 

As he enters the dining room he lets out a breath of relief, he can see Timmy outside, on the deck, wrangling with the gas tank. The inside lights cast a soft glow on his naked skin, the black lace standing out in contrast against the paleness of his hip. His pert bottom – not that Armie is looking – high in the air as a result of his bent over position. A position Armie’s starting to think is one he may very well have a new appreciation for. 

Not that he’s looking.

He aims to distract himself by rushing over to help, his shoes sounding against the varnished wood, causing Timmy to look up at him. Just as he reaches over to help he finds that his assistance is not required, Timmy straightening with the detached canister in his hands. The smaller man must be stronger than he looks because he hefts the tank into Armie’s hold with little effort, their fingers brushing gently as the handover is made.

“You might as well keep it, I’ve no use for it.” The soft breeze ruffles his hair.

Standing this close Armie can see the golden sun-bleached hue at the ends of Timmy’s curls, wonders what they’d feel like running between his fingers. He imagines it’d be like honey, or streams of warm sunlight. When their eyes meet he notes that Timmy’s green eyes are flecked with a multitude of colour, reminding Armie of the tapestry he saw mere moments earlier. 

Timmy blinks, shivers a little in the cool night-time air. His small, pink nipples peaking, unknowingly drawing Armie’s attention. Armie’s fist tightens its hold on the gas tank, the cold metal biting into his palm, dragging him out of his unintentional haze.

He frowns. “Are you sure? You know that’s not what I came for. I’ll just use it tonight, top it up and return it as soon as possible.”

Timmy places a hand on his bicep reassuringly, the heat of his hand seeping through the thin material of Armie’s shirt. “Honestly Armie, it’s fine. Besides, I know where it is, if I want it back I’ll come around asking, ok?”

Reluctantly Armie nods, allows himself to be escorted back to the front door.

“I uh, don’t mean to be rude, but I have to say goodnight.” Timmy bites his lips nervously as he opens the door, his weight changing from foot to foot. “It’s not that I don’t want to chat or anything, but I’ve got a lot of work to get done tonight? So uh, yea…”

Armie rushes to reassure the younger man. “Oh of course, don’t let me hold you up any longer.” He steps over the threshold. “I’m sure we’ll bump into each other another day.”

Timmy smiles shyly up at him. “Great, thanks. Be seeing you around then, I guess.” And with that he shuts the door softly, the snick of the lock loud now that the music within has been contained. Armie’s words of thanks and farewell dying silently on his lips.

He shrugs, and walks back home, promising himself along the way that he will put all thoughts of Timmy and his almost non-existent shorts to the back of his mind. He needs to eat, shower, and get a good night’s sleep to make up for all the missed hours of unconsciousness he’s accumulated recently. 

He will most certainly not jerk off to the boy’s blemish free skin or cherubic curls, and definitely not to the tiny piece of lace stretched taut across Timmy’s biteable hip. No way, definitely not. 

Then again, is it really lying if you’re only lying to yourself?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy asks Armie for a ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing was meant to be my easy fic. The one I don't stress over or worry about.  
> LOL.  
> Anyway, apologies for the delay, my muse was meh and my health has been too.  
> Not looking for sympathy, just being honest.  
> It's Armie's birthday here where I am - happy birthday Armie!

A week passes before Armie sees Timmy again. In that time, he’s been offered, and has accepted, junior partnership at work. He’s not got the corner office, but he’s moved up two floors where the view is nice, and it’s a step in the right direction. Plus, he’s now got his very own assistant.

He spends the rest of the week doing his best to prove his worthiness of the promotion, and when Friday evening comes around he’s relieved to be able to go home and relax for two whole days.

Well, sort of. He’d made plans to celebrate with a relatively tame dinner and night on the town with Nick and Ashton on the Saturday. As soon as he’d broken the news of his new title they’d insisted, no matter that he didn’t want a fuss made and was hoping for a quiet weekend. 

It’s Saturday, early afternoon, he’d slept in that morning until Archie’s barking woke him up, the pooch adamant on being taken for a gentle jog around the block. He’d followed up their outing with a healthy lunch – he figures he’s gotta do all he can to make up for the damage that’ll be incurred that evening. 

He’s relaxing in front of the TV when he hears a knock at the door – strange, he’s not expecting anyone.

Archie hurries to the front entrance, excited at the prospect of a visitor, tail wagging in a blur. Armie trails behind him, making quick work of the lock before pulling the door wide open.

There on his doorstep stands Timmy. Breathing heavily, a slightly panicked look upon his face.

“Oh thank god!”

“Uh, hi. Are you ok?”

Timmy’s hands are shaking and there’s sweat on his upper lip, he can’t seem to stand still.

“I just. I saw you take Archie for a run earlier and wasn’t sure if you’d gone out again.”

Archie whines beside him at the sound of his name.

“Can I help?”

This isn’t making any sense. If Armie knew him better he’d say that Timmy looks like he’d almost rather be anywhere other than standing outside Armie’s house, but here he is.

“Oh, right! Um, could I, like borrow your car? Or, uh, you could maybe drop me off?” His feet shuffle uncertainly on the doormat. “It’s just that I have to be somewhere in 30 minutes and my stupid car won’t start and I don’t have any time to call and wait for a taxi so I thought I’d try my luck with you? But you know, no biggie if it’s too much of a hassle, I know it’s a lot to ask,” he finishes with a rush, hands up as if already accepting a negative response.

Armie shakes his head, grinning softly, chuckling under his breath.

“O-of course,” Timmy shrugs, “no worries, enjoy the rest of your day!”

And in a blink Timmy’s turned around and is two steps away before Armie realises what’s happened and sticks out a hand to grab at a delicate wrist.

Timmy freezes, tension leaving his body immediately, a confused frown revealed as he faces Armie once more.

“You’re alright. I’ll take you.”

Without warning Armie has an armful of frantic energy, Timmy’s twig-like arms wrapped around his neck, his wild hair tickling at his cheek for a full three seconds (Armie knows this for certain, he counts the Mississippis in his head) before the embrace ends all too soon for his liking. 

“Thank you, thank you! I’ll go grab my stuff.”

“Need a hand?”

“No, no, I’m all good,” he calls out, already halfway back to his own house.

 

When Timmy meets him at his car a couple minutes later he’s got an armful of opaque garment bags, a backpack, and a small carry-on sized suitcase. Armie raises his eyebrows and Timmy just shrugs.

Timmy gives him the address and as Armie pulls out of his driveway he glances at his passenger. “You should’ve let me help.”

“Can’t have you thinking I’m completely helpless, can I? Hang on a sec.”

A second turns into nearly the entire 30-minute journey, when first, Timmy calls someone to say he’ll be late.

“I’m so sorry, I know I said 1.30pm, I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll cut down on my prep time to make up for it.”

The first call is followed by a few more, this time to a series of mechanics. Apparently, Saturdays are either busy or quiet – it takes Timmy a few goes before he has any luck. With each call his anxiety seems to manifest in a variety of nervous ticks. He fidgets with the seam of his jeans, then plays with his bottom lip, before pulling at the collar of his t-shirt.

It’s distracting to say the least.

As their journey ends they pull up in front of a large, for lack of a better word, mansion. One of those houses people dream of being able to afford. Nothing fancy like what Hollywood A-listers own, but the sort that regular people could realistically aspire to, if they were hard working or fortunate enough to be of old money. The sort with a perfectly manicured large front yard, no doubt a bigger one out back, two storeys with a grand entrance, shuttered windows, pristinely painted cladding, and what appears to be a three-car garage. Its siblings running up and down the tree-lined street in this affluent suburb.

The car has barely come to a stop before Timmy’s out of his seat, hurriedly expressing his gratitude repeatedly as he unloads his cargo. Armie sticks his head out the driver’s door window and calls out to the boy.

“Take a breath. It’s ok, I’m happy to have been able to help.”

Timmy attempts to push his wayward curls out of his face, they bounce straight back with little consideration for their owner’s will and state of mind. “Right, well, thanks again anyway, I would’ve been screwed without you.”

Armie nods in acknowledgement. “What time are you done?”

“Oh, uh…4.30pm? 5pm?” Timmy’s nose scrunching as he thinks. It’s kinda cute, and very endearing.

“Ok, I’ll make sure to be back before 4.30pm.”

Timmy gives him a frazzled, wide-eyed look. “What? No, it’s fine, I’ll grab a taxi or something.”

“Honestly, it’s no trouble,” Armie reassures, “I’ll go run some errands and then come back for you.”

When Timmy goes to protest again Armie cuts him off.

“This isn’t up for debate. Now shoo, you don’t want to be even later than you already are.”

A flicker of indecision crosses Timmy’s face before he leans against Armie’s car and presses a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Thanks.” He smiles shyly as he gathers his things and bounds as quickly as his belongings allow up the path to the impressive entrance.

Armie waits until he’s inside before pulling away from the kerb. He lets out a shaky breath as he tries to refocus his mind elsewhere and fails. His cheeks burning, heart thumping, the hint of a grin playing on his lips. 

Armie can’t wait for 4.30pm.

 

He’s just loading groceries in the trunk when he hears an unfamiliar ringtone from inside his car. He hurries to the front where he finds a discarded phone down the side of the passenger seat. Timmy.

“Hello, Timmy’s phone.”

“Who’s this?”

It’s a female voice, with a chirpy Irish lilt. 

“Armie. Who’s this?”

“Saoirse. Where’s Timmy?”

Saoirse? She sounds suspicious.

“I uh, dropped him off at some place?” He explains.

“Since when does Timmy have a driver?”

“He doesn’t?”

“Well are you a client then?”

A client? What exactly does Timmy do?

“No, I’m hi-”

“Whatever, can you just tell him I called?”

“Sure, but-”

And before he can glean any more information from this mysterious ‘Saoirse’ she hangs up.

How odd.

He places Timmy’s phone in the glove box for safe keeping and resumes the task at hand.

He manages to get a couple more jobs done before he heads back to the house. Armie’s kept waiting for about 20 minutes, but happily whiles away the time checking his emails and confirming the evening’s details with the others.

Timmy startles him when he arrives at the car with little warning, a satisfied expression on his face. 

“Someone looks pleased with himself.”

Timmy preens at his words. “You would be too, if you were me.”

“Is that so?” He jumps out of the car and helps Timmy place his things in the back. “Care to tell me why?”

“Made a bunch of cash and scored some new clients.”

“Drinks on you then? And clients for…?”

“Oh, parties – you know.” Timmy replies nonchalantly as he gets himself seated once again in the passenger seat.

“Right.” Armie mutters, under his breath, more to himself than to anyone else. He doesn’t know really, but it sounds like Timmy thinks he does, and now doesn’t seem like the time to play twenty questions.

As he drives them back home they make a little small talk. It’s comfortable and easy, no pressure, no stress, just two neighbours driving home together. Answering Timmy’s questions, Armie tells him about his job and recent promotion, prompting the younger man to offer his congratulations and his insistence on taking him out for a drink that evening. 

“Make that two – one to celebrate, and one to say thank you.”

Armie cringes internally, wishing he could accept the invite. “Uh, well as lovely as that sounds, I kinda already have plans?”

“Oh! Oh my god.” Timmy brings a hand up to his mouth, clearly a little embarrassed. “I just presumed, I’m so-, I mean, what an idiot!”

“Honestly, it’s fine. It’s just a couple of my mates – you’re welcome to come with.”

“No. No, no, I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“They wouldn’t mind, it’s ok.”

“I think I’ve hogged enough of your time for today. And besides, I’m sure you’d have a better time without me tagging along.”

“I doubt it, but if you’re sure?” Armie brings the car to a halt halfway up his drive.

“Of course.”

“Well, the boys are often around on the weekend – maybe you can hang with us another time?”

A soft smile plays on his lips. “Yea maybe.” 

“Oh, and before I forget.” Armie reaches across to open the glove box and retrieve Timmy’s mobile from within.

As he leans he hears a quick intake of breath from the smaller man, the drag of his pink tongue followed by a shaky exhale. Armie smirks, makes as though he’s having a hard time digging around the compartment, causing Timmy to shift restlessly in his seat, before finally coming back triumphant. 

He notes how Timmy’s eyelashes flutter as he retreats a little. Armie can smell something sugary sweet on him, notes the faint glimmer of glitter high on his cheekbones, only noticeable from this angle. On anyone else it might look silly, but on Timmy it’s…pretty.

Armie’s stomach flips and he can feel his dick start to harden.

Fuck.

He clears his throat. “Uh, here’s your phone. You left it behind earlier. Um, someone called Saoirse rang?”

The younger man stares at him briefly before seeming to catch himself. “Oh, thanks. I hadn’t actually realised, I was in such a rush.” Timmy’s cheeks are flushed and he bites at his lower lip bashfully.

“Really, I hadn’t noticed.” Armie deadpans.

Timmy’s eyes light up with laughter and he gives Armie a gentle shove, taking his phone out of his hands and exiting the car.

Thankfully he doesn’t fight Armie when he offers to help carry his stuff, just grabs the garment bags and his backpack and lets Armie trundle behind him with his suitcase. He fumbles for his keys, taking longer than necessary to get the door open, and sends an apologetic look Armie’s way when it finally swings open.

“So uh, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, it was nothing.”

If this had been a date this would be the exact moment Armie would choose to kiss Timmy good night. Or good afternoon. Evening. Semantics.

“How humble, my very own knight in shining armour,” Timmy teases.

Armie can feel blood rushing to his face, shoves his hands in his pockets, repeats what he’d said earlier. “Just happy to help.”

“Well, now I owe you one – don’t take too long to collect.”

His eyes whip up to meet those of the young man before him. Was he…? Did he mean for that to come across so suggestively? Timmy’s expression is indecipherable, playing into Armie’s fantasy.

If he doesn’t leave soon he’s gonna pass out from all the blood shifting hurriedly in opposite directions around his body. This boy is trouble. Armie is in trouble. Or he would be if he got his way.

“I, um. Hmm, right.” His stumbling response brought to an end when he finds himself once again hugged by his narrow-framed neighbour.

Timmy’s voice has lowered to a hair above a whisper. “Congratulations Armie, enjoy your night out.” In this close hold, with his chin hooked over his shoulder, breath tickling his ear, Timmy’s words are intimate, like those spoken from one lover to the other.

He shivers.

Timmy nudges him away, gestures towards his house. “Go on. I’ll see you later.”

And ‘later’ coming from those lips after that embrace sounds like a promise.

He nods, both in thanks and acknowledgement, scratches at the back of his neck, muttering a quiet goodbye as he walks a few steps backwards down Timmy’s front path.

The last thing he sees before turning around is the bright twinkle of Timmy’s green eyes, and the quirk of his upturned mouth just as the closing door hides him once more from the outside world and Armie’s longing gaze.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Archie misbehaves and so does Armie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBH this chapter has been sitting here nearly finished for a couple weeks. Dance comp and a gastroscopy got in the way. Have decided to just give it to you rather than attempt to double it in size and have to tackle the next bit. Um. Enjoy?

It started about six months ago. The first time it happened Armie was mortified. A part of him still is with every reoccurrence. But now it’s almost routine. Except for the fact that he’s unable to actually predict when it’ll happen.

Whenever he can, Armie likes to let Archie roam freely, allowing him to come and go inside and outside as he pleases. He doesn’t believe in keeping an animal in complete captivity. Besides, he reckons Archie is pretty well trained, and it’s only his backyard – how much trouble could he get up to? Inevitably this leads to some...less than desirable outcomes. Most notably muddy footprints, muddy furniture, muddy dog.

Muddy panties.

Timmy’s panties.

Armie just about has a heart attack when Archie traipses in with something wadded up and dangling from his mouth. He looks so proud of himself for finding this gift for his owner and sits there looking up at Armie expectantly after having deposited the delicate undergarment in Armie’s outstretched hand.

At first he isn't quite sure what he’s holding, but he works it out soon enough. Really, despite it being mud covered and soaked in Archie’s saliva, when he thinks about it there’s no mistaking the lacy cream fabric, with its ruffled edges, little bows on the side, and cheeky keyhole in the back.

Now there’s no way Archie could’ve jumped the fence to fetch the item himself, and Armie is certain that the property boundary is intact and lacking any holes his canine companion could wriggle his way through. He doubts Timmy’s the sort of person to be throwing his clothing over the fence – surely not his smalls, what with them being so...decadent? Fussy? Intricate? Regardless, Armie might not know much about lingerie, but he knows enough to surmise that this particular pair is clearly of some decent monetary value.

So, a force of nature – naturally.

He can hardly return them to Timmy in their current state. But if he washes them he could feasibly return them under the guise of them having been blown over the fence by a gust of wind. Right? Of course he’d pretend to be unsure if they belong to Timmy, because, well to do otherwise would be admitting to having knowledge he’s quite happy to keep to himself. Or at least from Timmy.

With a plan under his belt he carries on with the rest of his day.

And if he stops to give Timmy’s panties a soak with fabric softener before attending to his own laundry it’s no different than what any ordinary person would do. And if he decides later it’d be best to handwash them rather than run them through the washer then no-one needs to know. And if, once washed and dried, he can’t bring himself to return the panties to their rightful owner it’s no-one's business but his own.

He avoids his sock draw for a week.

And when he inevitably runs out of available socks he resolutely keeps his eyes to the left of the drawer, his gaze never straying to the back, right corner, where, tucked between his dark dress socks lies temptation.

Armie’s only human. A mere mortal. 

When he does give in it’s probably the best orgasm he had in months. Maybe even a year. Of course they’re now covered in come, so the washing process begins again, only this time he keeps them in his bedside table. And somehow forgets about them until the second pair arrives.

Once that happens he drops any real pretence of returning the panties and instead just puts them with the first pair. Before he knows it, he has a collection. And when he realises he has somehow amassed a total of ten pairs, well, maybe that might be a bit of a problem.

If having to deal with regular thoughts of Timmy in various states of undress but always clad in a tantalisingly scant slip of fabric is considered a problem. Perhaps not.

But then one day he has a sudden burst of fear of being caught.

It’s the weekend, a couple weeks – thereabouts – after his promotion, a week after he had to turn down Timmy’s offer of a drink and he’s been too consumed with the idea of Timmy in his panties and covered in glitter to face the boy in person since.

The boys are around for a post-gym laze about the house. He would’ve invited Timmy but, well. Nick and Ashton only know so much about him and Armie kinda likes having a little secret of his own. Given their relationship it’s not very often he’s able to keep something, or someone, from them.

He goes to answer the door and as soon as he opens it to find the person who’s been consuming his mind he quickly steps through and closes it swiftly behind him. 

There stands Timmy with a puzzled and slightly concerned expression. His fingers fidgeting with the dainty golden bracelets which adorn his slender wrist. A subconscious habit or nervous tick, drawing Armie’s undivided attention, conveniently, or maybe not so conveniently, distracting him from the unexpected nature of this visit.

“So, um...have you had anything go missing off your line?”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

“No...?” Armie’s desperately doing his best to stay calm, to not give anything away. 

It’s not like he stole Timmy’s panties, he just didn’t give them back when he found them. But they’re washed and intact, so if anything, he’s done Timmy a favour, right? Regardless, his heart is racing, sweat is blossoming on his brow, and he has to keep his emotions in check around someone he definitely has trouble doing that with under normal circumstances.

Timmy scratches at the back of his head, scrunches his nose. “Ok, well. If you see any of my clothes will you let me know?”

“Yea sure, of course.”

Armie’s torn between wanting Timmy to stay and making him leave – both for the sake of his sanity. He gets a soft smile from Timmy and a nod of thanks as he retreats when a thought occurs to him.

“How will I know if they’re yours?”

Timmy turns back, cheeks pinking up. “Oh, I think you’ll know.”

And with that he skips off.

Armie stands there for a few seconds, dumbstruck and simultaneously burning hot and ice cold. Timmy knows. He has to. Why else would he imply that Armie has knowledge of his clothing? Now he’s definitely going to have to avoid him, even more than he already has been. 

Should he have said something? Deny any knowledge? Would that have been inadvertently admitting knowledge? Is maintaining his innocence his best option here? Armie blinks rapidly, he’s spiralling.

He quickly shakes himself free of the moment – get a grip! Armie hurries back in, it wouldn’t do to have the boys suspect anything was up. He manages to re-enter without receiving the third degree and their day carries on much as usual. 

Well, that is until later in the evening as they’re relaxing beside his pool when the peace is disturbed once more. And this time Armie doesn’t quite get away with it.

Archie – bless him – as much as he loves the dog, he may have the worst timing ever. And that, in combination with his friendly, people-pleasing nature, potentially has all the power to pull the rug out from under Armie’s feet and throw him in the deep end.

They’re having a couple of beers in the warm early evening light outside on the porch. Archie suddenly comes bounding over from where he’s been frolicking in the garden – hopefully burning off enough energy he won’t be bouncing off the walls when he’s supposed to be sleeping. As is habit for him, he races over to Nick – he knows where to find affection and has no problem with playing favourites.

“Hey buddy, you having fun out in the yard today huh?” Nick coos, ruffling the fur atop his canine head. “What’s that you’ve got there, Archie?”

Armie sees it all in slow motion. It’s as if he’s watching a train wreck, only, this is his life and he’s the one who’s going to have to deal with the consequences. He doesn’t need to see it at all to know what’s about to happen. 

He opens his eyes. When had he closed them? Three pairs of eyes are on him. 

And all Armie can focus on is the compromising red satin nestled in Nick’s hand. Red like Armie’s cheeks. Red like the blood thundering through his veins. Red like the lust that he feels for Timmy. Red like Timmy’s lips, lips he’s imagined kissing, devouring, tasting, savouring.

“Got something you wanna tell us Armie?”

It’s like a bucket of cold water.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie handles a sticky situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I kinda think this chapter is a bit meh - apologies in advance. But need to get this bit out of the way so I can move onto more exciting stuff!  
> Fair warning, might be a bit of time before next update - health issues getting in the way. So I'll either have heaps of time to write, or no time at all, we shall see.  
> As always, enjoy!

Armie’s life flashes before his eyes. Not today, not now, not here. If he could either drop dead or be swallowed up by the ground, either would be better options and preferable to what’s happening presently.

“Whenever you’re ready mate.”

Ashton eggs him on. “Yea, who’s the lucky lady?”

His knee-jerk reaction is to tell the truth.

“They’re Timmy’s.”

Their reaction is unexpected. Or perhaps if he’d actually thought about what he was saying before he said it he wouldn’t have been surprised at their surprise. 

Mouths agape, eyes wide, the two men trade glances. Nick nudges Ashton, who promptly clears his throat, his face kind, though cautious.

“Uh, Timmy, as in your neighbour Timmy?”

Armie looks at them bewildered. “Do I know any other Timmys?” 

He doesn’t think he does, but even if he did, this Timmy will forever be the first Timmy to come to his mind whenever he hears that name. The boy doesn’t even know his own mind-consuming abilities, doesn’t need to know, if Armie’s to keep a handle on the situation. Something he’s just barely achieving.

Nick hurries to smooth things over. “No, no. It’s just that we didn’t know you two were, you know.” He gestures vaguely with his hands.

Something clicks in Armie’s mind and he suddenly realises why the guys are being awkward, careful, strange.

“Oh god no!” He laughs, almost too convincingly, his hands raised as a physical means of stopping their train of thought. “I’m not, we’re not, Timmy and I are just friends.”

They don’t look convinced. 

“With benefits?” Ashton questions, waggling his eyebrows comically.

Nick smirks. “And what benefits they are.” He waves the panties high in the air.

Armie silences them with a glare, snatching the satiny garment from Nick’s grasp, and shoves them in his back pocket. Out of sight out of mind, he figures.

“Strictly friends. Neighbours. Friendly neighbours. Neighbours who are friends,” he explains, thoughts jumbled, scrambling for words, shaking his head.

Ashton shrugs, his voice smug, “Well, of course. If you say so.”

Barely resisting the urge to cross his arms over his chest, Armie responds, hoping to put the matter at rest. “I do say so.”

At that the two men burst out laughing. Laughing at him. 

Armie sees red. 

Then realises there’s no point fighting when he’s outnumbered, so he settles in for a quiet sulk on his lounger with Archie cuddled up beside him.

“Cheer up bud,” says Nick, interrupting his darkened mood with a pat on his shoulder. “There are worse things in the world to be accused of than fucking your cute, lingerie-clad, twink of a neighbour.”

Armie side-eyes him, before relaxing back with his beer.

A comfortable silence reigns as they go through their age-old routine of cooking at the barbecue. Ashton on plates, cutlery, and drink refills, Nick on prep, and Armie – man of the house (it is his house after all) manning the barbecue.

With the day’s warmth lingering on into the evening and the sun yet to set, they eat outside and reminisce on the previous weekend’s activities. Namely, Nick claiming to be a parkour star and Armie and Ashton both doing their best, in their drunken states, to out do his attempts. None were successful. All were bruised. Egos included.

A quiet, almost menacing, chuckle sounds loudly in the lull of their conversation. Armie’s eyes whip round to meet Ashton’s. He balks at the dangerous glint he sees there. This cannot be good.

“So, you and Timmy, nothing going on there, right? Purely platonic.”

Armie nods slowly, wonders where this could be going.

“Care to tell us how exactly you know that those panties belong to Timmy when, if we are to believe your words, the two of you are not intimately involved?”

Armie gulps.

Shit.

How do you convince your two best mates that the neighbour you kinda maybe fancy, wears various items of lingerie and you’ve happened upon this knowledge by complete accident and remain entirely innocent within the scenario?

Most people probably know their neighbours at least a little, he reasons internally. And they’re of comparable age so one could assume that they’d maybe get along or at least have more in common with each other than other neighbourly combinations. And it’s not unheard of for people to happen to see their neighbour’s laundry from over the fence. Or if you go round they might have clothing on the line or in the communal areas of the house.

There are certainly ways for Armie to have gained this intel without having ogled his lanky, boyish frame, pale skin, and luscious curls. Looking into his house from his home office, which conveniently faces Timmy’s living room, in hopes of a glimpse of soft thigh, or perky bottom. Peeking over the fence when gardening, in the off chance he’s outside in his smalls because that’s a perfectly normal thing to expect to see.

Armie could definitely explain this away without having to admit to his slight obsession. He’s willing to admit to himself that he might have the tiniest attachment to the panties – and their owner. But that’s for him to know and no-one else. Not his friends and especially not Timmy.

He's pulled out of his thoughts by a sausage bouncing off his head, rebounding, as if in sacrifice, nearly straight into Archie’s waiting mouth.

Nick looks at him incredulously and a little concerned, waving a hand in front of his face. “Earth to Armie. You in there? You alive?”

“Oh, uh yea.” He coughs, bluffs a casual attitude. “I’ve like, been around to his place a couple times to pick up and drop off stuff – gas tank and the like – and I’ve seen them lying around the house and on the line?” They seem to be buying his story, and he breaths a little easier. “I assume they’re his coz he lives alone and I’ve never seen him with a girlfriend.”

Ashton and Nick swap wordless looks.

“Makes sense.” Ashton states with a nod.

Armie silently thanks his lucky stars that he’s managed to escape this close call. Vows to keep tabs on his neighbourly interest and make sure it doesn’t get out of hand, else he’d risk another incident like today, and that he could do without.

He decides that he’ll keep Archie inside from now on, do his best to retrain him not to retrieve underwear, and at his earliest and easiest convenience he’s going to find a way to return the panties to Timmy – possibly anonymously – and that’ll be the end of that.

He’ll go back to admiring from afar, an innocent, harmless crush that’ll never amount to anything.

His resolute determination simmers beneath the surface for the rest of the evening, as their night winds down and the boys leave to go home. But as Armie undresses for bed, checking his pockets before throwing his shorts in the laundry hamper, inevitably he’s faced with the source of his evening’s stress.

One last time couldn’t hurt. One last time and it’ll be out of his system, literally and figuratively. Besides, they’re already dirty, he’s going to have to wash them before returning them anyway.

No harm done, he figures.

No harm done.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy gives Armie a helping hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yea, my health is on the improve! Not 100%, but on my way.  
> Also, somehow went to Latin Dance Nationals and smashed it (basically) out of the park - the things I put my body through! Hard core R&Ring ATM.  
> Anyway. Have this. It's probably a bit rough, but I need it out of the way because I have plans for two of the next three chapters and the third is a holiday chapter so I need to get there ASAP.  
> The second half of this chapter is brought to you by peach cider. Have at!

Armie is in trouble. He’s not returned Timmy’s panties and now it might be too late. Once again, he avoids them studiously. They’re no longer in his bedside table, instead relegated to a shoebox in the back of his closet. He’s really testing the limits of out of sight out of mind. He’s ignoring the fact that every other time this approach has failed him. If returning them is going to prove to be too difficult, then the least he can to do is flat out refuse to admit they exist.

Armie’s also been working on Archie, it’s not quite perfect, but at least now Archie only brings in leaves. A vast improvement in Armie’s opinion.

This technique is successful to an extent. Successful in that Armie no longer has regular appointments with Timmy’s panties. Though also unsuccessful in that Armie can’t stop thinking about them, and Timmy. It doesn’t help that the boy is proving to be nearly unavoidable. Though he’s hardly parading around on Armie’s front doorstep in his smalls. It’s more that Armie has spent what was meant to have been a productive week of working from home, busy being distracted by sightings of his scantily clad neighbour from his home office.

It’s not that he doesn’t have work to do. It’s more that the work has proven very hard to complete when faced with temptation just beyond the edge of his computer screen. And if he’s almost fallen out of his chair whilst craning his neck at a near unnatural angle on multiple occasions, no-one needs to know. 

Arguably, he can’t be blamed for his over-fence ogling, not when Timmy looks so…delectable. 

Armie finds himself increasingly grateful for his recent promotion, a promotion that grants him the freedom, as junior partner, to sometimes work from home – provided the work gets done. 

Which it’s not. And Armie firmly blames Timmy for that. Blames it on his smooth skin, his bouncing locks, his petal-pink lips.

He’s lost count of the seconds, minutes, hours that he’s spent at his desk under the guise of working, in order to engage in his new favourite past-time. Some days it’s the way the sunlight hits his glossy hair, others it’s the slope of his lean pale thighs, and always it’s Timmy. 

Timmy with his ever-changing green eyes, boyish charm, and less than innocent smirk. Not to mention his unmentionables. Armie wonders what they feel like with Timmy’s skin peeking through, how they taste with his flesh hidden beneath, how they smell mixed with their owner’s heady scent. Mostly, he wonders about the boy himself.

By the time Friday rolls around he’s grateful that the looming 5pm deadline means he has no choice but to finally focus and get some work done, lest he turn in a hefty amount of sub-par nonsense.

So distracted he is by his work, that he first forgets to let Archie out for his morning ablutions, then momentarily lets the poor dog starve, and lastly, neglects to take him out for a walk.

Armie’s only made aware of the last when Archie comes careening around the corner into his office, over-excited, tail wagging, panting happily. A vast difference from the varying levels of whining that had filled the air all morning.

Following Archie around the corner is none other than Timmy.

In his house.

Timmy.

Dressed in a cropped white singlet and the shortest of red gym shorts, his hair a little sweat damp, midriff glistening in the midday sunlight. Of course.

“Um, he was making a lot of noise and it was distracting, and I could see you were busy so I thought I’d take care of him myself?” Timmy rubs the back of his neck, uncertainty in his voice.

In one ear and out the other. All Armie hears is a murmur of words, unable to listen intently, too busy trying to process the unexpected sight before him. The bare skin, long limbs, sheen of perspiration. It’s almost too much.

Why was Timmy here? How’d he get in? What’s this got to do with Archie?

Armie realises he’s let the silence go on for too long.

“Hmm, what?”

Timmy shakes his head, looks at him endearingly. “Clearly you are too overworked.” Gestures towards Archie, who’s now resting his head on Armie’s thigh. “Your dog, Armie. He needed a walk.”

Armie stands quickly, pats Archie gently, makes to leave the room. “Right well, let’s go boy!”

As he goes to pass Timmy in the doorway, the younger man stops him with a soft touch on his arm. “I already walked him, I know you had work to do.”

This makes him pause and frown, as he does his best to ignore the delicate fingers failing to span the circumference of his forearm and rewinds back through the last few minutes.

He looks from where Archie sits content at Timmy’s feet, up to the deep green eyes of his neighbour. “You took Archie for a walk?”

“Yes Armie.” Timmy smiles sweetly.

“Because he was being noisy.”

Timmy crouches down to nuzzle at Archie’s fur, scratch at his chin. “Mmhmm.”

“And I was too busy working.”

“Yup.”

Armie can’t quite shake the feeling that he’s missing something here. Something important. Something, perhaps, super obvious that should stick out as being odd that he needs to address. He looks around his office, as if hoping that the answer he seeks will jumped out at him, his gaze returning to the boy knelt below him, and his canine friend.

Recap. Archie needed walking. Armie was too busy. Timmy did it for him.

Hang on.

“And you knew this because...?”

“Because windows work two ways.”

Windows work two ways? What’s that supposed to mean? Does Timmy know that he’s spent most of the past week doing his best to spot Timmy in his underwear? 

No matter, he could play it off as daydreaming or searching for inspiration, taking a break, letting his mind wander. Anything but what he was actually doing. Which Timmy has no way of knowing for sure. No proof. Just what he saw with his own two eyes. Which could’ve been Armie watching him, with two eyes of his very own.

Fuck.

“What?”

Timmy straightens up, looks at him fondly. “You might not have been at the office this week, but I know you’ve been putting in some long hours at your desk.”

Armie can’t quite look him in the eye. “Oh, right. Yea.” Coughs awkwardly into his fist. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” 

Timmy glances around, seemingly realises where he is and quickly mumbles, “I should probably leave. I’ve taken up enough of your time – you’ve got work to do.”

This time it’s his turn to stop the other man.

“No, stay. Have lunch with me.” He shrugs. “It’s the least I can do.”

He can see the thoughts playing out on Timmy’s face as he bites his lip. Indecision, uncertainty, a flicker of…want?

“Hey, I need a break anyway. Alright?”

“Alright,” Timmy acquiesces, “but like, I need a shower. Archie doesn’t know the meaning of ‘walk’ and I swear that was the most exercise I’ve done all year.”

“Sure, of course. Yea I usually take him for a jog.”

Timmy starts towards the stairs. “Ok well, I’ll just pop home and be back in a few.”

“Just shower here.” Fuck. Did he just say that? He needs to think more before he speaks. 

“What?” Timmy pauses on the top step, brow crinkled.

“Uh, just shower here?” Clears his throat. “Save you going back to yours. And like, you can wear some of my stuff, no biggie.” 

Timmy just stares at him.

“Or you can go back to yours if that’d be more comfortable for you. Whatever, I’m easy.” Armie feigns nonchalance.

Timmy stares at him a bit longer. 

Armie’s feeling a little unsettled. Should he run? Diffuse the situation? Laugh it off?

“No, here is fine.”

The tight feeling in his chest unwinds and he shows Timmy to the guest bathroom. Gives him towels with the promise to leave clean clothing outside the door.

Ten minutes later Armie’s in the kitchen, Archie has been fed and he’s finishing off plating their lunch. He’s done his utmost best to ignore the fact that his very attractive neighbour, who he’s very attracted to, is in his house, naked and wet, and touching himself. Albeit, in a non-sexual manner. 

Or maybe in a sexual manner, how would he know? Would he know though? Armie resolutely bans himself from looking for any evidence – surely he can be a polite and respectful host, if not neighbour.

He hears the soft patter of bare feet on hard wood. Turns just in time to see Timmy enter from the hallway. 

Armie knew in picking out a change of clothes for the younger man that seeing him in his own clothes would do something strange to him. But nothing could’ve prepared him for the way his shorts hang baggy and low on Timmy’s slim hips. Or how the neckline of his t-shirt sits lopsided on Timmy’s narrow shoulders, exposing a tantalising collarbone, a drip of water running over its prominent jut, wet from his towel-dried hair, curls flattened, almost coy, against his head.

He doesn’t dare to think about what Timmy may or may not be wearing underneath.

Timmy’s cheeks pinken and he fidgets under Armie’s gaze. The small action bringing Armie back to the present.

“Chicken salad sound ok?”

“Sounds perfect,” Timmy sighs.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie quenches Timmy’s thirst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter! Ahead of my regular schedule, but behind on my holiday schedule.  
> It evens out, right?  
> I'm iffy on the structure of the flashback, but couldn't be bothered trying to make it work any better.  
> Very keen to get the next couple chapters out ASAP.  
> Here's hoping!

Armie’s not exactly accustomed to hearing his name randomly out of the blue. It’s not a common name and it’s certainly not something he’s listening for when he’s home alone. At first, he thinks he’s imagining it, and carries on with his book, but after a few seconds of silence there’s no denying it’s his name being called loud and clearly from...outside?

When he steps through his front door, he’s borderline assaulted by the near deafening sound of his name being screamed from the other side of the fence. Jesus.

“ARMIE! ARMIE! ARMIE!”

He follows the voices, because there’s two of them – he can tell from the occasional lack of synchronicity – around the corner and through Timmy’s side gate. Who knows what he’s about to stumble upon.

And if he’s being completely honest, he’s more than just a little surprised to find Timmy, and a blonde girl, both dressed in head to toe white, and very, very drunk.

They don’t acknowledge his presence, don’t even seem to know he’s there. They’re just shouting his name over and over, with intermittent giggles, from where they lie on their backs on a patchwork picnic blanket, surrounded by various snacks, what look to be decorations, and several bottles of wine. Armie’s willing to bet most of them are empty, or at least on their way to being empty.

He clears his throat loudly. “You called?”

They stop, look at him, look at each other, and dissolve into laughter, Timmy whispering in the girl’s ear.

Armie’s too taken with their matching state of dress to be offended by their behaviour. On her it looks like a simple sheer gown, giving off a rather dreamy, heavenly vibe. But on Timmy the way the gossamer fine silk drapes over his slim figure, with its billowy sleeves and pleating around the neck, is positively sinful. Armie has to remind himself to breathe when Timmy shifts slightly, the movement showing the line of his lean body through the gauzy fabric. 

Could he be naked beneath his flimsy covering?

The thought has Armie’s mind reeling. All that skin just begging to be touched, supple flesh asking to be kissed, dainty limbs waiting to be worshipped. As he takes a step closer, he comes to the realisation that the boy is not in fact naked, but instead wearing a lacy, nude coloured bodysuit.

In some ways that’s worse – or better – than him being completely starkers.

The way the straps press into his shoulders, and the lace digs into the thin skin of where his legs meets his torso, has Armie salivating. He can spy, just faintly, the pink buds that are his tiny nipples, somehow peeking through two layers of fabric, as if seeking Armie’s attention. He just wants to lick him all over.

He feels a tingling deep within and a sweat breaks upon his brow. It’s one thing to think he’s naked, it’s another to bear witness to the wearing of such an intricate garment. This cannot do. He simply cannot be aroused, standing in his neighbour’s backyard, ogling him whilst in the presence of a stranger, in broad daylight. 

Predictably, Armie’s body betrays him and he curses under his breath as he feels all the blood in his body rush southward.

Timmy rolls onto his front, shiny curls cascading around his face, the curves of his body not unlike those of a precocious nymphet. He manages to get to his knees where he makes two attempts at standing, before holding a hand out towards Armie, eyes big and round, pleading.

Armie prays to god his hands aren’t sweaty and promptly rushes over, helping Timmy to his feet, doing his best to ignore the feel of the smaller man’s hand in his own, much larger grip.

“What are you guys doing out here?”

Timmy leans his head against Armie’s shoulder, peers up at him through his tousled hair. “Well I was meant to be decorating for the party but Saoirse arrived early and we had to have a celebratory wine and then we tried to put up decorations but it’s too hard.” He pouts. “Can you help?” Timmy’s hand clutches at Armie’s tightly to keep his precarious balance.

He leads Timmy over to a nearby deck chair, before turning and assessing the situation. 

There are streamers tangled in the bushes, and fairy lights half hanging in the trees, with half a dozen balloons haphazardly strung along the fence. It’s a disaster zone. In reality the task should only take one person about twenty minutes, but is evidently almost impossible for two people when they’re drunk.

Saoirse – now that he can put a face to the name and voice – seems content to remain horizontal and grounded. He tells them both to stay put while he works around them to first undo their mess, and then decorate from scratch – with their highly-qualified supervision of course.

He supposes all this effort is in aid of the party that evening. A party which he and the boys have been invited to. Timmy had asked, that afternoon, the one when he’d walked Archie and somehow had appeared in Armie’s house – practically the best surprise of his life. Though now potentially tied for first with seeing Timmy as a drunk angel.

 

Timmy asked, that afternoon, over lunch, whilst Armie studiously maintained eye contact with him or his plate for the duration of the meal. Desperately doing all he could to avoid staring longingly at the shower-damp beauty sat before him.

“It’s a Christmas party, at my place, technically it’s costume optional, but most people make some effort.” Timmy said.

“Who’s gonna be there?”

Timmy replied, as if stating the obvious, “Just the important people – had to time it right for after Saoirse gets in, but before I leave.”

“You’re leaving?” This was the first Armie had heard of him being away for the holidays. He wasn’t sure if he liked the idea of the boy being so far away from home, away from him.

“Yea, I’m flying home for Christmas. You have plans?”

“Oh, uh…I’m not sure actually, usually I just stay in town and have Christmas with Nick and Ashton. Keep it casual, you know.” Armie shrugged.

“What about your family?”

“We don’t exactly see eye to eye on things, so I only go home when I know it will be civil.”

Truth be told, it’s not like Armie ever really wants to go home if he can help it. And any time he does it’s usually out of obligation, after having his arm twisted by whichever family member drew the short straw on the task of guilt tripping him. He’d rather they just left him to live his life in peace. The infrequent phone calls are bad enough.

His response caused Timmy to stop eating, fork paused on his plate, mouth quirked in a wry grimace. “Oh, right. Sorry.”

“Hey, not your fault, not your problem.”

He really didn’t need Timmy’s sympathy on this, he’d long ago come to realisation that you can’t change people, and that you can still have love for them, even if you disagree on some pretty major issues. Though that’s much easier done from a safe and healthy distance.

“Well still, I’m sorry. I forget how lucky I am to have such a supportive family.”

“Don’t feel bad about it Timmy, it’s just the way it is. Embrace what you’ve got.”

They’d drifted into safer territory after that and before long Timmy was excusing himself once more, patting Archie on his way out, leaving Armie to work in peace, mind working in overtime to process the afternoon’s events.

 

And now here he is, hanging up Christmas decorations with two drunk angels keeping him company. 

A clinking sound behind him grabs his attention and he turns to find Saoirse pouring another glass of wine. He swoops in and takes the glass off of her just as the rim meets her lips.

She scowls, “You’re no fun.”

“You’ll thank me tomorrow. Now help me get Timmy inside.”

He pulls her up and they stumble over to where Timmy sits, not having moved one inch since being deposited in the seat some time ago. Fortunately, Saoirse seems to be in good enough shape that she is able to stand unsupported, something Timmy is struggling with, if the way he’s clinging to Armie’s waist is anything to go by.

Somehow Armie gets the two of them inside, where Saoirse promptly lies face down on one of the couches. Timmy follows suit on another, and somehow manages to drag Armie along with him. Or rather, under him.

Their bellies touching, Timmy straddling one of his thighs, the slit in his gown revealing more leg than Armie can comprehend, his hair tickling the underside of Armie’s jaw.

Armie doesn’t quite know what to do with himself or his hands. As much as part of him is enjoying the close proximity and the arguable benefits it affords him, it doesn’t feel right to be thinking about how attractive Timmy looks all flushed in the face and dopey eyed, when he’s not in full control of himself and his actions.

He slowly tries to extricate himself from beneath the boy but his efforts are stopped by a plaintive whine.

“Where you going?” Timmy mumbles, blinking up at him one-eyed, the other mushed against Armie’s chest.

Armie panics. “Uh, I’m just gonna get you a glass of water. And Saoirse too.”

He looks over to the other couch, sees that she’s nodded off, and screams a little internally. 

His words seem to placate his intoxicated charge and he just manages to transfer Timmy onto the couch, sliding himself out in the process, when a hand circles his wrist, stopping his movements.

“Will you come back?”

Timmy wants him to come back? He surely doesn’t mean it, he’s just drunk and clingy. But the forlorn expression on his face is too genuine to be anything other than the truth.

Still, Armie’s not convinced. “Yea…?”

“Promise?”

It’s the way his bottom lip juts out, the begging look in his eyes, that has Armie giving in and promising his return. God knows that boy practically has him at his beck and call just by simply existing. It’s pathetic really.

He escapes to the kitchen, fills a glass of water and downs it quickly, before filling it once more and heading back for the lounge.

Neither Saoirse nor Timmy has moved, seemingly dead to the world. He quietly places the glass down on the coffee table when Timmy stirs.

“You’re back.”

Armie stills, glances at Timmy’s prone form. “I said I would be, didn’t I?”

Timmy licks his lips, purses them, frowning.

“Water?”

He picks up the glass and, perching on the edge of the couch, brings it to the younger man’s mouth. Timmy must be thirsty, because he empties it of its contents in a few seconds flat. Each swallow, each bob of his Adam’s apple, drawing Armie’s gaze to his lips, his throat, his jaw. Who knew hydration could be so titillating?

He turns to place the now empty glass once more on the table. Shifts his weight to vacate his spot on the couch.

“Armie?”

He pauses.

“Hmm?”

“I’m cold.” Timmy tugs on his sleeve, bringing his attention back around to the boy beside him. “Cuddle?”

And really, he should say ‘no’. Armie knows he should say ‘no’. But ‘no’ doesn’t seem to exist in his vocabulary when it comes to Timmy. If anything, it all boils down to variations on three little letters: Y-E-S. Yes. That’s all he finds himself wanting to say these days. He hopes it doesn’t get him into too much trouble. Or rather, more trouble than he’s already in.

Timmy’s looking up at him, eyes bright and imploring, lips plump and glossy, mouth open and expectant.

Armie’s brain short-circuits and next thing he knows he’s once again on his back on the couch, Timmy tucked between him and the back rest, a pale thigh draped across his hips, a hand resting over his racing heart. He is going to have to be on his best behaviour. 

He exhales deeply, his breath ruffling Timmy’s curls, causing the smaller man to snuffle. Carefully he cards his fingers through the tangled strands, rearranges them back into their rightful places, trying to settle the boy, before resting his hand upon a pointed shoulder. 

“Better?”

The only response Armie gets is the shrug of a shoulder, as if to displace the recent arrival of his hand.

He takes it as a cue to resume his previous ministrations, stroking Timmy’s soft curls, twisting and winding them around his fingers. He feels, more than hears Timmy sigh and relax against him, his breath evening out before long.

“Better,” Armie says quietly to himself.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie finds himself in a tight spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive apologies for the delay in this chapter.  
> The time of year has hit me hard - had to entertain family for a week, then was consumed by Zelda for a week and a half straight (19 hours in one day - what?!), and have taken on a new role at work.  
> Another thing I have to admit is that this chapter didn't exactly go where I wanted it to.  
> I had a 44 line outline guys. I only covered the first five!  
> Suffice it to say, there's plenty more on the cards.  
> Anyway, here it is. I'm done with trying to make it fit my plan. Next chapter please!

When Armie comes to, eyes blind to the world, the first thing that crosses his mind is that he feels content. It’s quiet, peaceful, all is right in the world. The pleasant scent that surrounds him soothes his worries – soft vanilla and crisp pear, intermingled with a spicy undercurrent. He can feel a warm body cosied up to his side, a cold nose nuzzling at his ear, and a round bottom beneath the grip of his hand.

It’s strange, he thinks, because if he really tries to think about it, he doesn’t remember bringing anyone home, nor having the opportunity to do so. And this fullness in his heart, it’s almost too good to be true. His only conclusion is that this must be a dream.

And what a dream.

Has he died and gone to heaven? Has he experienced some sort of medical emergency and now he’s in that limbo land between the living and the dead? Is he in a coma? Armie doesn’t think he’s dead, or nearing it. Everything just feels so real, so normal. Ordinary, yet somehow not. Tangible, but just out of his reach.

He could open his eyes and see, but he’s reluctant to destroy this tranquil oasis, comforting bubble, that he finds himself in. Surely it wouldn’t do him any harm to linger just a moment longer. It’s not like he has anything to get to.

Oh…

OH.

In an instant his mind refreshes and he starts to remember. He remembers Timmy and Saoirse, their alcohol fuelled behaviour, the decorations, the Christmas party, their costumes, and Timmy. Timmy with his tempting looks, porcelain skin, and far from angelic persuasive ability.

An ability which has led Armie to his current position. Snuggled on a couch with a napping Timmy. 

Armie slowly opens his eyes, a little bleary from his unplanned siesta. He can hear the soft whisper of Timmy’s breath as it skitters lightly along his jaw. He spies a chocolate curl in his peripheral vision and doesn’t dare move for fear of waking the sleeping beauty. 

Timmy’s hand still rests atop his chest, although having migrated a little north where it now gently grasps the collar of Armie’s t-shirt, his hand, in turn, cradled by one of Armie’s own. Armie can’t help but take pleasure in how small and dainty it looks in comparison to the meatiness of his own mitt. 

He wonders what those long, spindly fingers are capable of, their skill and flair, their pleasure and their torture. What would they look like entwined with his own? What would they feel like against his skin?

As though sensing Armie’s staring, Timmy shifts in his hold. Armie freezes, unintentionally clenching the hand on Timmy’s ass.

Oops.

Armie is most certainly awake now, shocked by his own knee-jerk reaction to the boy beside him. He slowly eases his hold, does his best to return to the same pressure as before – he'd remove his hand completely if he thought he could get away with it without waking Timmy. Though maybe he could. If he was careful, and took his time, just bit by bit, finger by finger. Like a frog in a pot, Timmy would surely not notice if he progressed in tiny increments.

His thoughts are interrupted when Timmy murmurs, rolling his hips, arching his back, and snuggling his ass into Armie's grip.

Armie’s trapped. Physically and mentally. This is either the best thing to happen to him in a long time, or the worst, or – heaven forbid – both. Being under Timmy is one thing, having him unconsciously press his body into Armie’s – that’s a whole other kettle of fish. 

Gradually he relaxes once more, no longer on edge about the situation he finds himself in. He lets his mind wander, just a little, considers how it feels to hold Timmy, to feel his slight body against the solid weight of his own.

Once again, he can’t help but think that this feels right, even now that he knows who’s beside him. Especially because he knows who’s beside him. Is it strange that he feels so comfortable in his presence? Like this is something they do all the time and have done for years? As if it’s routine for Timmy to fall asleep on him on the couch, maybe late at night, while they’re watching old Friends reruns, each doing their best to beat the other in quoting the next line.

And bit by bit, Timmy’s lids would droop, and eventually he’d be asleep, but Armie wouldn’t wake him immediately to go to bed, instead he’d let him doze, draw pretty patterns on his skin in the flickering glow of the television until his arm goes numb and he’s forced to stop. 

He’d shake Timmy gently, wake him just enough to be able to half carry, half walk him to bed, where he’d remove Timmy’s sweatpants but leave his socks on, lest he be forced to endure cold feet on his shins. Then he’d tuck them both in, spooning Timmy from behind, the smaller man content to be cocooned in his warmth, Armie twirling his hair around his fingers until they drift off to sleep.

Armie wonders how they’d spend their days, imagines their conversations, considers the little things, their couple’s quirks. 

Does Timmy like cooked breakfasts? Or does he prefer cereal or toast? Perhaps he forgoes the meal altogether, preferring to get a head start on his day, somehow having nothing and everything to do with the disappearance of half of Armie’s plate whilst he downs his morning cup of coffee. Or tea or orange juice. All three? Would they fight over who gets which section of the newspaper? Would they even get the newspaper?

Is Timmy a morning or night showerer? Would he come to bed squeaky clean, skin soft, hair damp? Smelling of Armie’s shower gel even though his hasn’t run out, just because he knows how much Armie’s possessive side gets off to it. Or would they race each other to the shower first thing? Or would they, dare he consider it, bathe together? Wet limbs sliding in the soapy film that clings to them, cool tiles against hot bodies, lips finding each other in the heavy air. A constant battle between desire and obligations. Armie wouldn’t mind being late from time to time.

He can see himself coming home from a hard day at work to find Timmy curled up on the couch, so consumed with the book in his lap, he’s forgotten it’s his night to cook dinner. But it’s a common enough occurrence that Armie’s almost come to expect it. Timmy would apologise, Armie would forgive him, and they’d prepare the meal together. Timmy watching the stove while Armie dices and slices at speed, stealing kisses between nibbles of ingredients yet to be cooked. Secretly, Timmy never really forgot to cook, he just likes it better this way.

On the weekends they’d visit the farmers’ markets, buy fresh produce for the week ahead, argue over the best haggling technique. They’d go for walks with Archie, in the park, or along the beach, picnic basket in tow. Cuddle on the blanket while Archie scarpers about, point out strange clouds, read aloud to one another, fall asleep and wake up to Archie snuggled in beside them.

So lost in his daydreams Armie almost doesn’t hear the knock at the door. Thinks he’s still drifting somewhere in his thoughts until a second, much louder, knock sounds, and startles him.

His head whips around in the direction of the noise and his heart just about stops. On the couch opposite them is Saoirse, and she’s no longer asleep. In fact, she looks far from it – eyes clear and bright, body regal and poised as she sits calmly. And if the knowing smirk on her face tells him anything, it’s that she’s seen everything and he’s not getting away with any of it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy’s lost things, Armie loses things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so like. Longest Christmas party in history?  
> But also, I have covered an additional 7 points from my 44 point outline.  
> But the 44 point outline now has 49 points. Only 38 to go?
> 
> Life has been hectic.  
> If you've read 'Prince(ss)' you have some idea.  
> Also, work has been horrendous - end of financial year, beginning of the next fml.
> 
> Regardless - I don't know what's up with Armie, but I blame Timmy.  
> Onwards!

Armie goes to speak, to explain himself, but is interrupted by the insistent knocking at the door. He moves as though to answer it but Saoirse beats him to it, rises faster than he can in his half-trapped state, stopping him with a look, a glance at Timmy, who continues to doze, oblivious of the quiet face off he could be witnessing.

Saoirse sweeps out of the room, and Armie takes that as his cue to extricate himself from beneath Timmy. Timmy, a picture of innocence, angelically sweet with his sleep tousled hair and petal pink lips. Somehow also sinfully seductive with his prominent hipbones and bare legs, which, with every slight shift of the sleeping boy, Armie is decidedly ignoring. 

He can’t bear to wake him, but he doesn’t want to face Saoirse’s potential wrath upon her return, nor does he want to contemplate the thoughts of whoever’s on the other side of Timmy’s front door. He doubts any of Timmy’s friends would be happy to find him cosied up on the sofa with a complete stranger, he knows he wouldn’t be. If anything, he reckons he’s lucky to have survived Saoirse. He’s not about to push his luck. 

As much as he wants to be able to savour this moment longer, realistically he could be just seconds away from a very awkward first encounter with some of Timmy’s nearest and dearest, and it’s probably in his best interest to be less entangled with the brunette beauty than he is currently.

Should he wake Timmy? Or should he try his best to slide out without disturbing him?

The decision is made for him when he hears footsteps approaching and he hurriedly rolls Timmy onto his back and throws himself onto the floor as stealthily as his large frame will allow. Armie scrambles to his feet, and perches carefully on the arm of the couch just in time for the new arrival to round the corner.

“Armie?”

It’s Nick.

Armie lets out a sigh of relief at the sight of his familiar face. But his heart clenches at the near miss, how close he was to getting caught. He’d have rathered one of Timmy’s friends see them in their cosy embrace than Nick. Armie knows he’d have never heard the end of it if that had been the case.

“Hey.”

That’s a normal thing to say when greeting a friend, right? As soon as it’s out of his mouth he knows that his voice is at least an octave higher than normal, and way too loud. Overcompensating to the max. He cringes internally.

Nick raises his eyebrows.

“Hi...?”

There’s movement to his right and it catches his eye. Timmy grumbles, blinks blearily up at him, pouts.

It does strange things to his belly, seeing Timmy all sleep rumpled and soft. He can feel the panic subsiding, giving way to a warm fondness, which he realises seconds later is probably reflected on his face. He quickly schools his features into a more neutral expression.

Timmy frowns, before noticing the curious gaze of his guest.

Nick startles into action. “Hi, I’m Nick – Armie’s friend. Thanks so much for the invite.”

He receives a small smile and something resembling a wave from a half-awake Timmy before he slumps headfirst back into the couch cushions.

Nick shuffles up to Armie’s side, a slightly concerned look on his face. “Is he alright?”

Glancing Timmy’s way, Armie mutters quietly, “Just sleeping off a spot of day drinking. Party started early apparently.”

“Maybe he needs some food to help him sober up.”

“He hasn’t got any.”

Both men jump as Saoirse appears seemingly out of thin air.

Nick clutches at his chest. “How’d you do that?”

She just smirks, and taps the side of her nose.

Armie figures this is as a good a time as any to make his escape, before things get stranger than they already are.

“So…no food? Can’t have a party without food.” He pats himself down, forgetting and realising very quickly that he’d walked out of his place with literally nothing but the clothes on his back. “I’ll go get some. Be back soon.”

He all but runs out of there, choosing not to acknowledge Nick’s bewildered look or the glint in Saoirse’s eye, ignoring Timmy altogether. He navigates his way through Timmy’s house, getting caught up in some fabric draped artistically – less so now – across a doorway, before finally reaching freedom out the front.

The sense of relief is overwhelming as Armie takes in deep breaths of fresh air. It’s as if he’d been suffocating in a heady mix of arousal and panic. Not something he wants to experience again any time soon. Well, maybe the arousal, but he’d never admit that.

He rushes home, collects his phone, keys, wallet and heads out once more – this time to stock up on supplies.

 

Archie barks loudly when he gets back and he hurries to feed his starved pooch before heading to his room to change into his costume. Or rather, lack of a costume. It’s not really his thing – unless someone else does the organising, but this time he’s on his own.

He strips his t-shirt, pulls the shirt off its hanger, and shrugs it on. He stares at himself in the mirror as he buttons it up – could be worse, he figures, at least the blue matches his eyes. Kinda. He trades his jeans with a pair of shorts and surveys himself one last time.

Armie’s about to leave when the corner of a white shoe box catches his eye, just beyond his reflection, over his shoulder. 

He’d sworn never to touch it again, only in emergencies. It was meant to be tucked well away, where prying eyes wouldn’t find it, let alone his own wandering gaze. But maybe, maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time he could be done with the box and its forbidden contents once and for all.

Sliding it out from where he’d hidden it amongst his other shoe boxes in the depths of his closet, he steels himself for the inevitable reveal. 

Essentially, they’re harmless. But for Armie, they’re a double-edged sword. His eyes travel over the ruffles, the lace, the ribbons, the scalloping. Who’s he kidding? Ultimately, they are a blessing. 

Is he really contemplating a return mission? Or whatever it’s called when you want to release your hostages without the enemy knowing. Not that Timmy’s the enemy. Nor are his panties hostages. Maybe in Armie’s heart.

Though, if they’re gonna keep socialising – for lack of a better word – at each other’s houses, maybe it would be better for his sanity if they anonymously made their way back to their owner. Lest he get caught in possession of them and have to lie his way out. His mates might’ve believed him, but he somehow doubts Timmy would. The alternative – telling the truth – would almost be safer. Almost. 

He shudders.

That decides it. With a final, almost remorseful, glance, he does his best to hide his collection on his person. The problem is that when you’re dressed for summer you’re not left with many options. He grabs a jacket – for later, he’ll claim – and stuffs the remainder in its superfluous pockets.

It’s one thing to successfully hide them for transport, but he now has to consider how to smuggle and deposit without being caught red-handed. Or pink-handed. Lavender. Whatever. 

Surely Timmy can’t keep a track of all his belongings. Hell, Armie doesn’t own that much but he’d have a hard time listing it all off the top of his head. So it’d stand to reason that Timmy could not realise they’re missing. Well, he knows they’re missing, but maybe not which exact pairs. Or when. Or where. Perhaps if he scatters them about Timmy’s house – possibly even his yard – he might just get away with this so-called return mission.

Who hasn’t lost a sock behind the dryer? Off the line? Under the bed?

He counted eleven, now he needs to make sure they all make it back home safely. Like a military captain ensuring all his soldiers return to their motherland in one piece, no matter the cost. Except he’d like to get home safe too. He doesn’t want to be a casualty – he’d die of embarrassment, he’s sure. 

He’ll just have to be careful, and focussed. Minimise his alcohol intake. Avoid Timmy, and Saoirse, and Nick, and Ashton. Avoid everyone. 

And draw attention to himself by acting like an anti-social weirdo? Who wouldn’t notice his lumbering frame doing its best to go unnoticed?

No. Behave normal. But with his eyes on the prize. Fly under the radar. Hide in plain sight. The best disguise is no disguise. 

Plan in place, he does another once over in the mirror, he looks…anxious. He breaths deeply, rolls his shoulders, closes his eyes, and does his best to shake off this nervous energy. When he looks again, he appears calm.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! Come find me on Tumblr - I'm [aislingeach-21](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/aislingeach-21) X


End file.
